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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23670484">Come Back Home</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkward_ace/pseuds/awkward_ace'>awkward_ace</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death, Character Study, Complicated Relationships, Developing Friendships, Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - In Hushed Whispers, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Kissing, Mage-Templar Dynamics (Dragon Age), Male Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Non-Canon Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Other, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - In Hushed Whispers, Pre-Relationship, Relationship Study, Romance, Romantic Friendship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 01:21:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,366</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23670484</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkward_ace/pseuds/awkward_ace</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Their relationship is complicated as it is--elf and human, mage and templar. But they've managed to find something that looks much like friendship. But Redcliffe is hard on Pria Lavellan--harder still is the fall out between them and Cullen when they return home.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dorian Pavus &amp; Cullen Rutherford, Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Female Lavellan &amp; Dorian Pavus, Female Lavellan/Cullen Rutherford, Female Mage Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Mage Inquisitor &amp; Dorian Pavus</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Come Back Home</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <strong>let's do the time-warp again</strong> </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The first time she kisses him, it isn’t even really him. </p>
<p>At least, that’s what she tries, and fails, to convince herself of, because even if it’s a <em> possible </em>  future she’s found herself flung headlong into, and even if he’s half-twisted and snarling in pain from the bloody red  lyrium  that sprouts through his skin, it’s still  <em> Cullen </em>. </p>
<p>Serious, stoic, sad, uptight Cullen, who is afraid of her magic, who aggravates her to no end, whose smile is rare and brilliant and charmingly boyish, and who is the man who willingly placed himself between her and the people who would reach out to touch her and her clothes those first stomach-turning weeks when she learned what it meant to be “holy” to the shemlen. </p>
<p>They’d found a tenuous understanding, sort of, had managed to make a careful, fragile friendship that was <em> important </em>, and his eyes were still beautiful, his hair still golden curls threaded with silver, and his face was still handsome and so sad that she wanted to kiss that sadness away. </p>
<p>So here she finds herself, in this terrible future, looking at what will happen with her <em> failure </em>, and all she can do when they clash, is kiss him. </p>
<p>Hand tangled into his hair and hooked into his armor, ignoring the dull jabs of the humming crystal as her body presses to his, biting his lip as he takes a sharp, ragged breath. </p>
<p>And then he’s kissing her back and it isn’t soft or gentle or sweet, or any of those things. It’s rough, and hard, tastes of old metallic blood and rancid syrup, and she almost <em> feels </em> the pain behind it, can feel the sting as his fingers dig onto her shoulder and hips hard enough to bruise. He moans, a distorted, echoing sound and all the fight goes out of him. </p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” she breathes against his lips, ignoring the welling sting in her eyes, moves her hands to cup his face, to sketch her thumbs over his jaw and cheekbones, “I’m <em> so sorry </em>.” </p>
<p>“You were gone,” he whispers, voice trembling, “Maker, <em> you disappeared, you died,  </em> and I couldn’t-- <em> I tried </em>--” </p>
<p>“Cullen, I’m <em> so sorry.” </em> </p>
<p>He drags in a ragged breath, the air rattling into his chest, making him sound almost hollow, and his arms tighten. “You always come back,” he breathes, “<em> You always come back </em> .” And then  <em> he’s </em>  kissing  <em> her </em>, and it’s all hunger and fire and pained sadness and she’s crushed between the wall and him and now she’s the one who moans. </p>
<p><em> Cullen. </em> </p>
<p>Everything she shouldn’t want, everything she has been taught to fear, and he makes her <em> so mad </em>  but there’s a kindness and softness in him and she  <em> wants him </em>. </p>
<p>Pria is breathless when he finally breaks his kiss, breathless and buzzing, she can feel a faint trembling in her limbs, the churn of desire in her belly. “Tell me we can fix this,” he begs, “Tell me this can be undone.” </p>
<p>She nods, haltingly, still breathless and trying to find words while she finds her body thrilling and <em> wanting him </em> , even in this horrifically inappropriate moment and  <em> very unfortunate </em> setting. </p>
<p>He swallows, roughly, shudders and winces as something wracks him. She strokes her fingers through his hair, soothingly, gently, and is rewarded by his low sigh and him pressing into her touch. </p>
<p>“Good. Tell me what you need me to do.” </p>
<p>In that moment, Pria thinks she might be, stupidly and unreasonably, a little in love with him. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>There is something in the red that pulls him from her, in the end. Or nearly does. </p>
<p>Cullen is Fereldan, born and bred, and Feledans, she’s found, are a stubborn people with their roots dug deep into earth and rock. </p>
<p>So even there, in the end, as demons fall from rifts Alexius tears open, and the red sings loud and high and she can <em> see </em> him slipping away, his sword pinned by her staff, he’s fighting it, teeth grit and bared against whatever it is in the red that eats at him. </p>
<p>“Fight it,” she pleads with him, voice whisper-soft and panting, because she’s so tired, and she <em> hurts. “Please,  </em> Cullen,  <em> Fight it. </em> For me.” </p>
<p>His snarling lips twist, somewhere between a grimace and a pained smile. “It’s <em> always </em> been for you,” he manages, and then shoves her away with a growl. </p>
<p>She brings her staff back up instinctively, every sweaty, sore hour spent with her grandmother and father as a youngster making her <em> just </em>  strong enough to catch the next blow of his sword and deflect it aside,  <em> just </em> barely fast enough to make a quick spin into him and against him. </p>
<p>He’s <em> losing </em> to the red. She can see it in his eyes, the intensity of the glow in them, the gleam of unfamiliarity and madness, the veins that have crept up his neck, the ragged, wet sound of his breathing. </p>
<p>“<em> Cullen, please, I need you,”  </em> she tells him, because it’s true,  <em> she needs him </em> , she needs him beside her because he’s a stubborn prat and he makes her  <em> so mad </em>  sometimes, but he is  <em> there </em> . Whatever help she’s needed, he’s given, whatever request she’s passed to him, he’s fulfilled as best he could.  <em> She cannot save this damn world without his help. </em> </p>
<p><em> “Kill me </em> ,” he hisses back at her, looking wild and angry, and there’s something desperate in his eyes that’s fading fast. “I  <em> will not </em> be responsible for your death, not again.” </p>
<p>She’d just as soon kill her own brother! </p>
<p>And yet... </p>
<p>Centuries of struggle have hardened the Dalish. Years of being hunted for sport, for “heresy”, of persecution and prejudice, of living in fear and surviving the wilds, of constantly moving and scraping together what they could of their history and culture have all forged an edge of silverite and steel that makes them adaptable, hard, persistent. Unflinching in what one sometimes find that they <em> must </em> do to continue forward. </p>
<p>There’s a ruthlessness, in her core, a coldness she’s familiar with, a side of her that she’s only really fallen into a few times in her life. It has never been pretty, and it has sometimes hurt—she's not sure if it’s a gift or a curse, at times. </p>
<p>That coldness brushes against her now, steels her against the pain and sorrow. </p>
<p>“Kill me,” he says again, pleading, “<em> Please, Pria.”  </em> His voice is gravely, and broken, the words bitten out by sheer force of will alone. “Better dying who I am than lost to  <em> this </em>.” </p>
<p>She understands. Better to die a man than to become a monster, the mind lost to bloody red and high singing, malice and rage left in place, nothing but a puppet to some shadowed puppeteer. There’s fear there, in his eyes, old fear—fear that tells her that he’s, somehow, been here before. </p>
<p>There’s a faint crack as his swing goes wide, skittering off the edge of her staff blade as he forces himself to miss, to stumble at the last moment. “Please,” he whispers, free hand grabbing the staff near her hand, clutching it tightly, white-knuckled. </p>
<p>Pria is the eye of a storm. Abruptly calm and clear, crystalline. Ice. The cold, dark depths of the sea, still, silent. </p>
<p>She would just as soon kill her own brother. But she <em> would </em>, if he was suffering, and losing himself. And he would do the same for her. </p>
<p>Ruthless, that. But sometimes that’s what she had to be. </p>
<p>The old elvhen gods of her mother and her aunt would be proud, she thinks. And sad. </p>
<p>Always, sad. </p>
<p>Cullen gasps faintly as her dagger, flashed silently from her back, slides neatly and easily between his fourth and fifth rib, eyes widening in surprise.  </p>
<p><em> Always keep your dagger razor sharp </em>. </p>
<p>He slumps against her and she catches his weight, stumbling and hastily dropping to her knees, pulling him into her and wrapping her arms tightly around him. Blood bubbles up and over his lips, turns his teeth pink as he smiles faintly. </p>
<p>“I’m <em> sorry,”  </em> she whispers tearfully, the ice and eye of the storm gone. She touches his face gently, presses her forehead to his, “ <em> I’m so sorry.” </em> </p>
<p>His skin is hot and dry as his fingertips gently stroke against her cheek. “Come back,” he chokes out, still smiling, “Promise.” </p>
<p>She sniffs, chokes back a sob, and nods. “I promise,” she says, “I’ll come back. I will <em> always </em> come back to you.” </p>
<p>His smile widens, and the hand at her neck pulls gently—<em> weakly </em> <em> .  </em> She follows, and his blood is sticky and tastes of  lyrium  and corrupted magic as she kisses him again, kisses him  <em> back. </em> </p>
<p>And then he’s gone, a last breath rattling out and he goes lax in her arms. </p>
<p>She feels something in her <em> shatter </em> .  <em> Scream. </em> </p>
<p>And then...<em> cold. </em> </p>
<p>She pulls away, slowly, brushes hair from his eyes delicately and carefully lays him down. </p>
<p>Ice. Deep, cold depths. </p>
<p><em> Stillness </em>. </p>
<p><em> You are  </em> <b> <em> such </em> </b> <em>  a  </em> <b> <em> harpy </em> </b>, Haldir’s voice echoes in her mind, beloved cousin who is right about so many things. </p>
<p>Harpies are creatures of vengeance and ferocity, vicious in a fight, in defending themselves and their rookeries. Magic, old magic, pouring from talon and voice. There’s a reason sailors avoid cliffs known to house harpies, why they make signs of warding when someone mentions an infamous harpy by name. </p>
<p>Pria looks up, eyes locking onto Alexius. </p>
<p><em> I want his head,  </em>she decides. </p>
<p>Harpies are notorious for the trophies they braid into their hair, that they wear on their necks. </p>
<p>She stands, and the air crackles and pulls around her, the beginnings of a tempest, spitting static sparks. </p>
<p>She is <em> not  </em> the eye of a storm, any longer. There is no  <em> stillness </em>. </p>
<p>There is only ice, crystal cold and hard, and the loud, triumphant shriek of a harpy, right before her claws close around the fool who crossed her. </p>
<p>Alexius, in this wretched future, never <em> quite </em> understands what hits him. Neither do most fools who cross a harpy. </p>
<p>~*~*~*~ </p>
<p>Pria...was mistaken. </p>
<p>She had, it seems, forgotten that the Cullen of the future was not the Cullen of the <em> now </em> , so it only makes sense that he wouldn’t react the way she thought he might, because he hadn’t  <em> been through </em> the year that future-Cullen had. </p>
<p>She <em> thought </em>  he’d be happy to see her. She  <em> thought </em>  she might  look into  how he might feel if she kissed him in the  <em> now </em> . She  <em> thought  </em> that he would understand. She  <em> thought </em>  they might be well on their way to working passed his hang up on Chantry lies. She  <em> thought </em>...wrong. </p>
<p>It <em> hurts </em>. </p>
<p>Oh, it <em> hurts </em> , when he turns towards her as she approaches them in the Chantry, and instead of welcome and happiness, there’s  <em> fear </em>  and  <em> anger. </em> </p>
<p><em> “What were you thinking, letting mages run loose?” </em> </p>
<p>Why can’t he understand? Why can’t <em> any of them </em> understand? </p>
<p><em> I’m not a monster. We are not the monsters. No one deserves to have their life decided for them, to be locked away just because of an accident of birth. </em> </p>
<p><em> We can keep ourselves grounded and safe. Just give us the chance to show you. </em> </p>
<p>Even Cassandra’s support, <em> though she doesn’t agree with the decision </em>, doesn’t help the sting. </p>
<p>“I was <em> thinking </em> ,” she retorts waspishly, “That they deserve some room to  <em> breathe </em> . And to show  <em> all of you </em>  that  <em> they do not need to be caged </em>.” </p>
<p>Having the shadow of a sword over your neck, the threat of a glowing brand, <em> your children taken away </em> ,  <em> no lovers and spouses </em> ,  <em> no choices </em> —that's not living. </p>
<p>He’s scowling, and for an instance she can see the snarl in his face, the red glow of his eyes, the dull pulse of red in his veins. </p>
<p>She blinks and it’s gone, but there’s still blood and corruption in her mouth, on her tongue. </p>
<p><em> Why must I want you so? </em> </p>
<p>The sound of horns interrupts their stare down, and Leliana sends her a small, conspiratorial smile and Pria is <em> so thankful </em>  that  Leliana  is  <em> Leliana </em> . The Spymaster may not trust her, and she might not entirely trust the Spymaster, but  Leliana,  at the least,  <em> understands </em>. </p>
<p>And is willing to do things a little underhandedly and behind everyone’s backs. </p>
<p>“That would be the Templars,” she informs the Inquisition’s Commander, who goes from scowling to befuddled and stunned in an instant. “I decided to go with option three—both.” </p>
<p>The option no one thought they had. </p>
<p>It had been easy enough to learn Ser Barris’ name; a little less easy, she thinks, to get a message to him, but Leliana worked her own sort of magic, and now they had the Templars, too. Not all of them, not even close...but enough. </p>
<p>Enough who had been presented with <em> another option  </em> and who, uneasy with how the Lord Seeker was acting, wanting to  <em> help </em> somehow, accepted the invitation the Herald of Andraste had extended to them. </p>
<p><em> Join us. Help us. We can stop this war and save this world  </em> <b> <em> together. </em> </b> </p>
<p><b> <em> “ </em> </b>You’re welcome,” she spat at Cullen, flatly, and turned on her heel, leaving them behind her. </p>
<p>The sooner this stupid Breach was sealed and whoever <em> opened </em>  it was found, the sooner she could return to her clan and start to  <em> forget </em> all of this. </p>
<p>She could <em> forget </em> Cullen-fucking-Rutherford and his pretty eyes and his handsome, kiss-the-sad-away face. </p>
<p>But first... </p>
<p>She raised a hand and pressed it against her chest, over an inner pocket in her jacket. In it she had carefully folded the rag she had used to clean <em> his </em> blood from her face and hands.  </p>
<p>It rested against her, heavy, and she had been unable to throw it away. Silly, she supposed; since they were back, that future <em> technically  </em> hadn’t happened, which means she  <em> technically  </em> had never killed him, which means he  <em> technically </em>  hadn’t died and that  <em> technically, </em> she had never kissed him, and he had never kissed back. Or kissed her at all. </p>
<p>But it <em> had </em> happened—to her, at least—she had experienced it, and that made it real. So. </p>
<p>First things first, she intended to give him as best a funeral as she could. </p>
<p>~*~*~*~ </p>
<p>Cullen’s head is <em> still  </em>spinning </p>
<p>After two weeks, his head was <em> still spinning </em>  trying to comprehend how— <b> <em> how?! </em> </b>--the Herald had managed to get both mage and Templar. Obviously, Leliana had been a part of it. Obviously! </p>
<p>But their interaction with the Order in Val Royeaux had been less than productive, and he had known it in his bones that the moment the Herald accepted the mages’ invitation, the door to Templar assistance would slam shut and never open again. </p>
<p>And yet...here they were. </p>
<p>It seemed he still had something to learn about what other people would do for what they saw to be the right thing. That some people were stronger than he had been when it came to having the courage to <em> do  </em>the right thing, damn the consequences or who was in charge. </p>
<p>Or, perhaps, there was something more to the Iron Bull’s amused snort of “<em> You’ve  </em>tried telling them ‘no’. How’d that work for ya?” </p>
<p>Perhaps he wasn’t the <em> only </em> one who seemed incapable of winning arguments with her. </p>
<p>So. Here they were, two weeks later, richer in both mage and Templar numbers and things are tense but they’re getting...a little better. Slowly. At least between Templar and mage. </p>
<p>Between himself and the Herald...not so much. </p>
<p>They’ve barely spoken, merely courteous but precise words across the war table, and she is always out the door before he is and she is <em> maddeningly </em>  difficult to find when she has a mind to not be found. He’s even checked her ( their ?) usual haunt of the dock over the lake and she is  <em> not there </em> . Ever. He feels the phantom touch of her hand in his, tracing the lines of his palm as she reads it, and he, for some reason he’s not ready to think about too closely,  <em> misses her </em>. </p>
<p>This feels different than the rows and spats they’ve had before. Those were grating, and stung like a skinned knee, but this is...sharper. Jagged edges and shattered pieces that sink in and hurt when pressed or brushed against. </p>
<p>He isn’t sure how to make it better—if an apology would be enough. If an apology would even be worthwhile because there are <em> so many  </em> mages now, in the camp, more mages than there are Templars, and  lyrium  is still a bit difficult to get and the Breach is still making things tender and volatile and Maker, what if  <em> something goes wrong </em>? </p>
<p>He doesn’t think he’ll survive something like Kinlock or Kirkwall again. He already feels worn and stretched thin, haggard at the edges of himself. </p>
<p>All it would take is <em> one. </em> One abomination, one blood mage and then... </p>
<p>He shudders and becomes aware enough of his surroundings to realize that he’s being looked at intently. </p>
<p>Cullen turns and finds the Tevinter mage there, Dorian, he recalls, fighting away a sickly twist in his stomach that he tells himself <em> is not  </em>jealousy. </p>
<p>He <em> is not </em>  jealous by how  <em> immediately smitten </em>  the Herald so clearly is with the man. How she lingers near him, companionable arm resting on his shoulder or standing just near enough to him that their arms brush. He’s seen Dorian swan into her little house as if he owns the place any time he pleases, day and night, and to make things worse, the few elves who seem to have appointed themselves her personal staff, who guard her personal space studiously, just  <em> let him </em>. </p>
<p>He is <em> not jealous  </em> by the easy closeness, the easy  <em> intimacy </em> that seems to have sprung up between the pair. </p>
<p>So, what? </p>
<p>What of it if the Herald has set her lovely eyes on someone like Dorian—Cullen is here to do his job. To do what <em> needs </em>  to be done. To start to try and atone for everything he has ever done. He isn’t here to make friends or to find love (even if, in the cracks and crevices of his broken, awkwardly healing together self, he  <em> aches </em> for these things). </p>
<p>“Can I help you, ser?” he says, managing to keep his tone civil, if a bit terse. </p>
<p>“That depends,” Dorian replies with an arch tone and cavalier quirk of an eyebrow, “Are <em> you </em> the person to talk to about perhaps acquiring something softer to sleep on than, say, a sack of pointy rocks?” </p>
<p><em> At least some of us are  </em> <b> <em> sleeping </em> </b> <em> .  </em>Cullen thinks a bit bitterly, feeling the cling of fatigue in his shoulders and neck. </p>
<p>“No,” and he jerks his head towards the Chantry, “You’d have better luck with Lady Montilyet, though I doubt it’d be high on her list at this moment.” </p>
<p>“Pity,” Dorian shrugs, and resumes his intent looking. </p>
<p>Cullen bristles, faintly, and scowls, “<em> What </em>?” </p>
<p>“You’re not what I expected.” </p>
<p>Cullen...is not prepared for this statement. His response is the pinnacle of intelligence, “...What?” </p>
<p>“You,” Dorian enunciates slowly, as if speaking to a recalcitrant child, “Are not what I expected. Our lovely Herald spoke very highly of you, and you seemed to match that praise when we planned our fun little trap and now...well, I’m a little confused.” </p>
<p>Cullen can only stare at him, flustered, befuddled, and feeling sick. </p>
<p><em> Spoke highly of me? </em> </p>
<p>The mage continues after a moment, giving him a critical up and down, “Yes...I wasn’t...<em> quite  </em> expecting your reaction, when we returned. Though I can’t say I’m surprised, you Southerners  <em> do  </em> have such  old fashioned  takes on your Circles and your Templars—well. I suppose I shouldn’t talk, at least you  <em> have </em> something to balance against magic, even if you’re going about it very poorly.” </p>
<p>Another up and down and then Dorian grins cheekily, “But I <em> do  </em> agree that you  <em> are  </em>very pretty.” </p>
<p>Cullen feels his cheeks burn and huffs, “Terribly sorry I don’t meet your ideal of me, ser—if you’re quite done, I have work to do.” </p>
<p>Dorian holds up his hands, flaps one at him dismissively, “By all means, Commander, please carry on.” </p>
<p>The Commander turns, shaking his head faintly, and is frozen in place when he finds the Herald there.  </p>
<p>There’s a soft dusting of snowflakes in her hair, and she has a thick, wool shawl wrapped tightly around her, its fur-lined side pulled up around her neck against the cold. She doesn’t <em> like </em>  the cold, much, he knows, not like this—she's used to sun and warmth, and the cold of winter rain at sea and on the coast. He honestly hadn’t been sure she would return from the Storm Coast, when she had gone to meet the Chargers, and he still had the half-drawn up plans of moving the entirety of their operation  <em> there </em> to her. </p>
<p>She doesn’t smile at him. She hasn’t in two weeks. </p>
<p>He feels something break inside him. </p>
<p>Still, she looks at him, and then for a moment it’s almost like she’s looking at him but <em> not seeing </em> him, seeing someone else where he stands, and then it’s gone. She swallows dryly, and her arms tighten around herself a little more, pulling her shawl closer. </p>
<p>“Commander,” she says quietly. </p>
<p>It’s the first greeting outside the war room she’s given him. </p>
<p>“My lady,” he inclines his head slightly. Because she doesn’t really like being called “Herald”, or “Mistress Lavellan” and “Pria” is <em> much </em> too personal for the likes of him to be using with the person who is hopefully going to save them all. </p>
<p>A moment passes, and then Dorian makes a thoughtful sound. Her eyes flicker over his shoulder, to the other mage and her brow furrows and Cullen feels a tingle go over his skin, raising goosebumps as he swears he <em> feels </em> them have an entire conversation, right through him, without saying a word. </p>
<p>He doesn’t <em> understand  </em> this thing between the two of them, and it’s not  <em> for him,  </em> he knows that, but there’s still a pang in his chest. He wishes he  <em> could </em>  understand her so easily, so he would know how to  <em> fix this </em>. </p>
<p>Dorian breaks the silence, boots crunching quietly in snow as he takes the few steps to Cullen’s side, claps him companionably on the shoulder. “How about this,” he offers, “You two get out of this Blighted cold—perhaps your quaint little house, darling?--and <em> I  </em> will try and find something passable for proper food. It’s near dinner as it is, and I don’t know about you, but I am  <em> starving.” </em> </p>
<p>The Herald’s mouth quirks, a bit mocking but not unkind, “You’ve never starved a day in your life, <em> darling </em> , you wouldn’t know what  <em> starving </em> is.” </p>
<p>“True enough,” he accepts the rebuke with such grace that Cullen is rather impressed, “Be that as it may, I <em> am </em>  hungry, so I  <em> will </em> find us something as edible as I am able.” </p>
<p>“As you wish,” she says, and then her eyes shift to him as Dorian struts away (he doesn’t walk, the Tevinter mage, Cullen has noticed, but <em> struts </em>, and he’s not quite sure what to make if it, yet). He looks back at her, fighting the urge to drop eye-contact, and instead shifts to rest his wrists over the pommel of his sword. </p>
<p>“Well. Come on, then.” It’s as close to a command as he’s heard her come, yet, and he doesn’t have it in him to disobey her. He follows her, up through the gates and steps and through the door of her little house, hesitating only for a moment before stepping in, the door shutting quietly behind them. </p>
<p>It’s warm, with a fire crackling brightly away in the hearth, and it smells strongly of elfroot and rosemary. He can see bunches of it hanging from racks attached to the ceiling, drying for future use, and her armor and staff is set over in a corner, draped neatly over a chair. There’s a small chest beside it, with a small lock holding it shut. </p>
<p>He watches as she walks over to a small table under the racks of herbs and sets a soft-sided basket down, a basket brimming with more herbs and what looks like some wild garlic and tubers. </p>
<p>She’s pulling off her shawl and the small satchel that’s always at her back when he finally finds his words. “I don’t wish to intrude,” he says quietly, “I’ll leave, if you prefer.” </p>
<p>The Herald glances at him, “Dorian said he was getting food for the three of us. So. Here you stay.” </p>
<p>“And do you always give in to him so easily?” he asks, unable to stop the faintest edge of teasing creeping into his voice. He has no <em> right  </em> to, no business doing so, but there it is, anyway. “Since when did  <em> you </em> allow someone to boss you about?” </p>
<p>She stares at him for a long moment, long enough that he begins to regret the small teasing and reminds himself that they are <em> not alright </em>. </p>
<p>“He saved my life,” she says, “He’s the reason I was able to come back. If he wants to have dinner, why would I deny him something that is so easy for me to give?” </p>
<p>“That wasn’t--I didn’t mean to offend. My apologies, that was...forward. It won’t happen again.” </p>
<p>She’s staring again, and it strikes him that there’s something profoundly <em> sad </em>  in her eyes. Something that he feels  <em> he  </em> is bringing out, and something else in him breaks with the realization that he’s  <em> wounded </em> her and he isn’t sure how to close it. </p>
<p>“Would you care for tea?” she asks after a drawn-out silence, quiet and subdued, which alarms him somewhat, because she has been quiet, yes, melancholy, at times, but <em> subdued </em>  is  <em> not </em> something he would ever think to see associated with her. </p>
<p>He nods, mutely, and is glad when she indicates a small cupboard on the wall where he finds a few cups and plates. He brings three mugs to her and sets them near her on the hearth, where she’s preparing kettle and pot, and then he’s left with nothing to do again, so he stands there, foolishly, and looks around again. </p>
<p>The hearth has a mantle, a plain, sturdy plank of wood that’s bowed and buckled in some places with age. There’s a dingy glass bottle with a bunch of dried lavender tucked into it, smelling soft and sweet, and a rather ugly little straw doll with a rag for a skirt leaning against it. It’s mildly frightening, with mis-matched button eyes and a too-red, crooked smile. Next to that is a small jar, stoppered and sealed with wax, and filled with what looks like powdery gray ash. </p>
<p>She stands, dusting her hands and legs free of dried tea flecks, and glances in the direction she finds him looking. Then she goes oddly still in that way she has, freezing in place and if she were in the trees, she would begin to fade away from view. </p>
<p>“I know. Ugly little creature, isn’t it?” she tries after a moment, forced levity landing heavily enough that it drags his gaze back to her and his brow furrows. She shrugs a shoulder, “One of the little girls in the Crossroads gave it to me. After we brought back meat and supplies.” </p>
<p>He knows the answer, somehow, even as he asks, “What happened?” </p>
<p>Her smile is small and brittle, “She died. Bad lungs in the cold and wet, and she caught a fever.” </p>
<p>He glances at the stoppered jar, questioningly. Her smile breaks. “That isn’t her,” she says after a moment to take a deep, steadying breath, “That’s...that’s someone else.” </p>
<p>He realizes he has no idea how Dalish mourn and lay their dead to rest. He doesn’t ask. “I’m sorry,” he says, instead, because what else can he say? </p>
<p>She laughs, which puzzles him, a broken, trembling laugh that’s edged almost with hysteria. He worries, and wonders if he ought to speak to Josephine and Leliana about, perhaps, giving their Herald a day or two <em> off  </em>before she breaks completely. </p>
<p>This whole thing has not been kind to her. </p>
<p>His worry increases when she takes the few steps between them abruptly and rests her forehead against his shoulder, even as his stomach turns with something bordering on elation that she is <em> near </em> again. “My lady...are you alright?” </p>
<p>A snort. “No. Not really. Redcliffe was...hard.” </p>
<p>“I...yes. I imagine—I read the reports and—" he sighs, and rubs the bridge of his nose, his eyes, “And I...could have behaved more civilly when you returned.” </p>
<p>Another snort. If the intent of it was an agreeable reprimand, it works because he feels himself flush a little with embarrassment. </p>
<p>“We’re not monsters out to get you,” she says softly, and she sounds <em> so tired </em> in that moment. “I wish you could believe that.” </p>
<p>“I...I’m...trying. It was just...I was startled and I don’t <em> like  </em>surprises in the best circumstances. I wasn’t expecting...an alliance like that, I suppose.” </p>
<p>“You’d prefer I’d conscripted them. Put them <em> back </em> in chains.” </p>
<p>“They <em> did </em>  pledge to a  <em> Magister </em>--” </p>
<p>“Because they were <em> scared </em> !” She straightens, pins him in places with a glare, “Spirits, you sound just like your idiot  shem  king! He kicked them out of the place  <em> he  </em> offered them refuge—and didn’t bother to think that maybe he should do a little more work before hand and try and find a  <em> solution to the problem </em> —he punished them because they were  <em> scared </em>  and had  <em> nowhere to go, </em>  so  <em> of course </em>  they went for Alexius. He was their  <em> best option  </em>to survive! It isn’t their fault he was in a cult, or that he decided he had the authority to kick out whoever-the-fuck was in charge! They were damned one way or another.” </p>
<p><em> Damned one way or another. </em> </p>
<p>He felt a kinship with that, and he hesitates. But what if...? </p>
<p>“I’m...I’m only worried about malefi--” </p>
<p>“Don’t,” she growls, eyes narrowing, “Just <em> don’t </em> . Vivienne already spoke to me like I’m a child. Like I don’t understand  <em> magic.  </em> That it’s  <em> dangerous </em> .  Of course  it’s dangerous, everything is fucking dangerous in some way. You don’t try to keep a bear for a pet because that would be  <em> dangerous </em> , and you don’t let a little one with magic just go around willy-nilly because that’s  <em> dangerous </em> . But  <em> locking them up and teaching them to hate themselves is not the solution. </em>  Do  <em> you </em>  understand that? That the Circles have taught  <em> generations </em>  of children to  <em> hate and fear </em>  themselves? That you  <em> throw them to demons  </em> in order to ‘prove’ themselves to  <em> you, who have no magic, who do not know what it is like,  </em> and then you  <em> murder them </em>  if they fail. That your ‘holy’ Chantry would allow the  <em> slaughter  </em> of innocents under so-called Templar protection when they become unruly? That your Chantry, inevitably, condones the  <em> genocide  </em> of an entire population who do not bow to their narrow definition of ‘truth’, because an entire population got  <em> unruly  </em> over  <em> injustice?  </em> How  <em> dare  </em> you speak to me like  <em> I  </em> am wrong. Like  <em> I  </em> am a child.  <em> I  </em> am of the  <em> Elvhenan </em> , and we have lived and  <em> breathed  </em> the magic of this world longer than you humans have  <em> existed.” </em> </p>
<p>He can’t breathe. He can’t think. He can’t look away from her, and his heart is pounding, and he finds he wants to drop to his knees because at this moment, with the fire lighting behind her, the sun setting through the window, burnishing her hair molten red and bronze, she is the closest thing to <em> divine </em> he has ever seen in his life, all flame and seething, righteous fury and glittering, deep blue eyes that have him frozen on the spot. </p>
<p><em> Forgive me,  </em> and he isn’t sure if he’s praying to the Maker or to  <em> her </em>. </p>
<p>She glares at him for a few moments more before exhaling sharply and looking away and it’s only then that he can find breath again, and it’s ragged as he does. </p>
<p>“I need you to do better, Cullen. I...I understand that it is <em> hard </em>  for  you,  and that you are  <em> trying </em> , but I need you to do  <em> better </em> ,” she says, dragging her fingers through her hair and staring at the floor. “Please. I need you on my side, I can’t  <em> do this </em> without you.” </p>
<p>“I am on your side,” he whispers, reaching out and barely touching the side of her arm, “I’m sorry that I shouted at you. Condescended. I...” he almost chokes, words failing as Kinloch, Kirkwall, all the fear and pain, flash through him at once. </p>
<p><em> Do better. </em> </p>
<p><em> “I am on your side,”  </em> he repeats roughly. “I. ..will  do better.”  <em> He must. </em> </p>
<p>If he doesn’t, he will lose whatever this fragile, precious thing they have is, and he thinks it might destroy him. He didn’t come here for friends, or for love, but if this is either of those things, he doesn’t want to let go. </p>
<p>Pria’s shoulders slump as she lets out a heavy breath, and then she’s wrapping her arms tightly around him and pressing close and surely, <em> surely </em> she can hear his heart hammering in his chest. “Thank you,” she murmured into his collar. Cullen struggles with himself, with conflicting desires, and ultimately propriety loses out to something else, and he returns the embrace, tightly, maybe a little too tightly, but she doesn’t protest and he can’t seem to find it in himself to care at this precise second. </p>
<p>She smells of pine woods and cold air touched with sea salt, and sweet vanilla. </p>
<p><em> Maker he’s missed her. </em> </p>
<p>She takes a breath, slowly let’s it out, and he shivers as it skates against his throat and <em> then </em> her fingers curl at the back of his neck, just in his hair, and the pleased bolt that goes through his spine takes his breath away, nerves tingling from head to toe and he feels dazed, his head floating. He’d forgotten how it felt to have someone run their fingers through his hair, forgotten how fuzzy and lovely it is. </p>
<p>He’d forgotten what it was to be touched softly. </p>
<p>“I’m glad you’re alright,” she whispers and her lips, feather soft, moving against his neck might be the closest thing to heaven he’s found. </p>
<p>It’s too much. There’s a storm happening in his chest and stomach, roaring through his head, the smell of her everywhere around him, the warmth of her hands and lips and breath, the weight of her against him, around him, her fingertips running gently through his hair, sending little sparking thrills through him that have his breath catching a little and she’s <em> here </em> ,  <em> willingly </em> , and they’ll be  <em> alright </em>  again and he  <em> will  </em> do better because she is  <em> everything </em>  and he  <em> never wants to be the cause of her hurt again-- </em> </p>
<p>Pria shifts, straightens a little, her similar height rasping her cheek faintly against his and then he’s wondering how she got so <em> close </em>  because she’s  <em> right there  </em> even though  <em> yes,  </em> they  <em> are  </em>still holding each other, and then he’s breathing her in, the same air as her, staring like the dazzled idiot he is into her depths-of-the-sea blue eyes and then-- </p>
<p>And then... </p>
<p><em> Oh. </em> </p>
<p><em> Oh, Maker. </em> </p>
<p>He had been wrong. </p>
<p>Her lips. Her lips against his. </p>
<p>Her kiss was the closest thing to heaven he’s found, and she was <em> fucking sacred. </em> </p>
<p>~*~*~*~ </p>
<p>The second time she kisses him, there’s no blood and pain and fear. There’s no humming red, or the stink of an old castle, the sick twisting of a torn Veil and magic gone wrong. </p>
<p>There’s just her being impulsive, and glad he’s alive, and that’s he’s stupid and stubborn but <em> there </em> , and that he will try. He will try and try and try. He will fail. And then he’ll get up, dust off, and try again, and they will argue and fight, but she thinks that she’ll come back, because she seems to  <em> always  </em>come back to him. </p>
<p>And he’s <em> there </em>. </p>
<p>There and he has pretty brown eyes, and beautiful golden curls, and has a handsome face with sadness in it that she wants to kiss away. </p>
<p>She shouldn’t want him. He’s everything she’s been taught to fear, to be wary of, to stay far from. Templar. Chantry-loyal. Human, an <em> unknown human.  </em>But, she wants him. Pria wants what she wants, and she always has, and sometimes she even lets her good sense get locked up by her own idiocy and decides to get what she wants. </p>
<p>Maybe if she kisses him enough, he won’t be so afraid of magic, one day. Maybe he’ll learn to see that it’s beautiful in the same way most dangerous things are, and that if you’re careful, and respect it, there’s very little to <em> be  </em>afraid of. </p>
<p>So she kisses him, in her little house in Haven, with the sun setting and Dorian no doubt arriving soon with dinner, with both of them running high from tension and adrenaline and <em> relief  </em>to be on friendly terms again, and he’s kissing her back, a strangled, wanting sound catching in his chest, and then his hand is on her hip, pulling her into him and she melts into him, lets him catch her weight and hold them both up. </p>
<p><em> Stubborn. Roots that go deep in earth and rock. </em> </p>
<p>His lips are soft, chapped from cold, and she can taste the faint lingering trace of strong, black tea and honey. Her stomach flutters pleasantly, and there’s a playful thrill when the edge of his tongue sweeps against her lower lip. </p>
<p>Pria is happy to find that, when not in a life-and-death situation, Cullen is a <em> good kisser </em>. </p>
<p>They’re both breathing shakily when it ends, her hands curled into his hair and the fur of his mantle, and his eyes remain closed for several heartbeats before fluttering open to look at her. </p>
<p>“Maker’s breath,” he whispers, the corner of his mouth pulling up a little crookedly. </p>
<p>She smiles, and rubs her nose against his. </p>
<p>“Is...is this how we’re apologizing to one another now?” he asks, “Because if so, I <em> might </em> be starting rows more often.” </p>
<p>She blinks, startled. And then she is <em> delighted </em> . “Cullen Rutherford,” she says, “Did you just  <em> flirt </em> with me?” </p>
<p>He’s grinning now, all imp and boyish charm. “Yes.” </p>
<p>She <em> likes </em>  this  side  of him; Pria laughs, light and airy, content and happier than she’s felt in  <em> days </em>. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So...In Hushed Whispers always stuck with me, particularly the scene when the Quizzie comes back and Cullen goes from mad to bantering in a friendly manner.</p>
<p>Nah. That isn't how it goes. That shit was dramatic and traumatic.</p>
<p>This is more how it goes. For Pria, anyway, who has a Bad Time, and Cullen can be a Raging Asshat, and Dorian is 100% Pria's soul-mate, this will be pried from my cold, dead hands.</p>
<p>I think I've tried getting this idea written out three or four times and I'm finally mostly happy with how this worked out--it was an interesting chance to look into some of the harder, flintier parts of Pria that maybe aren't all that "good", and it was interesting to sort of poke around in how they were feeling and coping. Playing around with Cullen and how I perceive him and how he was feeling and thinking is also always fun.</p>
<p>I also really dislike angst that ends angsty so for my own mental well-being, I like to give that stuff a reasonable happy ending, when I can. And these two kids deserve happy endings.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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